“Good morning,” I said.
The older officer, broad in the middle with tired but kind eyes, touched the edge of his cap.
“Señora Salgado?”
“Yes.”
“We received a report about a domestic dispute.”
“A domestic dispute,” I repeated.
Behind him, Doña Lupita threw both hands toward the sky.
“She admits it! She’s crazy! My son is in Cancún working, and she has stolen his house!”
I looked at her carefully.
She was wearing pearls at nine in the morning.
Pearls. Lipstick. A pressed blouse. A handbag tucked under her arm. A truly worried mother would have come in slippers and messy hair. Doña Lupita had dressed for an audience.
That was the first useful thing I noticed.
The second was the black SUV slowly turning onto the street behind her.
Rodrigo’s SUV.
My stomach did not drop.
It hardened.
He had not rushed home in panic.
He had arrived with reinforcements.
“I can show you the ownership papers,” I told the officers. “The house belongs to me. I bought it before the marriage. I paid the mortgage. The deed is only in my name.”
The younger officer blinked.
Doña Lupita stopped yelling for half a second.
Then the SUV doors opened.
Rodrigo stepped out first.
He wore the same navy blazer he used whenever he wanted people to think he mattered. The same expensive shoes I had bought him two Christmases earlier. The same face—except this morning, it did not show guilt or shame.
It showed annoyance.
As if I had inconvenienced him.
Valeria got out from the passenger seat.
She was dressed in white.
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